


A Talented Man

by x_art



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:15:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A what-if based on all the episodes, but mostly Witness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Talented Man

**Author's Note:**

> Even though this story starts off non-Reese/Finch, I still consider it a Reese/Finch story. Edited March 1, 2015

_“It’s as if the guy was gonna either be president or Attila the Hun.”_

Detective Bernard Sullivan, NYPD, ret.

_______________________________________________________

 

“…and boss, I’m telling you, it was a mess. He just smiled and left. And that detective that’s been such a pain in the ass? Szymanski? He shows up fifteen minutes later like he’d been tipped off or something. We barely got out of there without him seeing us.”

Carlo took a bite of linguine. The pasta was cooling, the sauce as well and he pushed the plate away with a grimace of distaste.

“And where is he, anyway?” Anthony added. “He was gonna meet us here and it’s almost ten—

“He’ll be here. Give him time.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin.

“We have. Three hours. That’s a hell of a lot of time to get from there to here. And that’s another thing—it’s been almost six months now and where’s it gotten us? Where’s _he_ gotten us?”

Anthony was leaning into Carlo’s space, now, his voice rising. “That’s not his fault,” Carlo said with a self-deprecating twist of lips meant to diffuse and calm. “You know my plans were never going to be accomplished overnight.”

Anthony was already shaking his head. “It’s not just that—he’s not one of us. Manzione. Where’s he from? Nowhere. Who’s he connected to? No one. I’m telling you—”

Carlo held his hand up, stopping Anthony mid-stream. “And I’ll tell you again because we’ve had this conversation and I’m tired of it. He’s part of the crew. He can do things the rest of you can’t.” He patted Anthony’s shoulder to soften his words. Even though he appreciated the advice, the decision was his. “I trust him and he’s staying.” 

“If you trust him so much, how come you haven’t told him who you really are?”

He stared at Anthony. Then smiled. “That’s my business.”

Anthony hesitated in a moment that was tense and ugly. Then he nodded once and sat back in his chair. He wasn’t happy, but he’d shut up and that was the important thing.

Because the last thing Carlo needed was more pressure. The time of change was coming. He could feel it, like the world was giving him signs—a subtle shift of air pressure or temperature. It told him the tipping point was at hand. Something he’d waited for so long now, it felt like a lifetime. And he didn’t need Anthony, his right-hand man in most ways that counted, causing a scene because he was jealous of the new guy.

He picked up his wine glass and surveyed the room. No one had noticed the conversation, but then he preferred this restaurant for that very reason. Motivated by discretion, fear, or simple apathy, the staff and regulars kept their eyes to themselves.

“Finally,” Anthony muttered.

Carlo looked at the door and murmured, “Here’s our boy,” watching intently.

Striding across the long, narrow room with that, _‘Screw you’_ walk of his, John looked neither left nor right. It was as if the place were empty or everything in it belonged to him, supreme, confident.

And damn, the diners didn’t even glance up as he passed and Carlo wondered what he wondered every time John walked into a room—discretion aside, how did they not see what was before them? Because if ever there was a killer made flesh, it was here, slipping into the chair next to him, smelling of sweat, gun oil and the night air.

“Charlie,” John murmured easily with a slight bow of his head. He turned to Anthony, lips bent in a smile. “That was fun.”

Anthony’s face darkened. “For you, maybe. We had to clean up after you. _Again.”_ He jabbed his finger for effect.

John stilled for a second before saying quietly, “Then next time you might try doing something other than standing around like a bunch of teenagers at their first dance. You should be thanking me—I saved your life.” He rested an elbow on the table. “And if you point your finger at me again, I’m going to give you a matching scar for the other side of your face. Try being invisible then.”

Anthony glared at Carlo and jerked his thumb as if saying, _‘Can you believe this guy?’_

Carlo raised his hands in an equally silent, _‘Don’t blame me— you know how he is’_ gesture. He never interfered with his crew’s arguments—they worked it out or _were_ out. A basic management technique he’d found as useful in the classroom as on the streets.

But Anthony snarled and he stood up, his chair sliding back to hit the wall. “See you tomorrow, boss,” he muttered.

John smirked and didn’t watch Anthony leave. He picked up the glass Carlo had filled an hour before and took a drink.

“You’ll want to sip that,” Carlo said. “It’s a hundred and fifty bucks a bottle.”

“What’s a history teacher doing drinking a hundred and fifty dollar bottle of wine?” John asked, holding the glass up to the light. “I thought you were keeping a low profile?”

“I was, but…” He shook his head. Patience and planning had been his modus operandi for so long. “It’s all coming to a head—can’t you feel it?”

“No,” John said with a shrug. “You gonna fill me in?”

Carlo leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It’s better if you don’t know, John.”

“Is this about protecting me or not trusting me?”

“It’s not about trust. I just don’t want to fuck it up at this late stage.”

John raised an eyebrow and Carlo held back a smile—he rarely swore, a holdover from constantly having to watch his mouth in school. Another thing that would soon change.

John tipped the glass; the wine left a pale red residue. “But Anthony knows.”

Carlo shrugged. “He’s been with me a long time. You know that.”

John took a sip of wine, then sat the glass on the table. “He’s unpredictable. You should cut him loose.”

“Funny. He said the same about you.”

“You two planning my retirement, Charlie?” John asked silkily, relaxing back in his chair, long fingers just touching the stem of the glass.

He was wearing the shirt Carlo had bought him a few weeks ago, open at the throat, a soft periwinkle that did something to his skin, made him glow, made everything around him fade to nothing. Such a far cry from the John from seven months ago, down on his luck, a bum. Carlo was more than proud he’d had a hand in John’s re-making even though it had all been surface work. John was a natural, a masterpiece, and he wanted him so badly his belly hurt. “What do you think?”

John smiled. “I think as long as you can use me, you’ll let me live.”

He shook his head. “No.” He’d had the same thought, months ago after John’s first run-in with Anthony and Gino, but John more than paid his way and not just in bodily harm. “Don’t worry about it—Anthony’s just being Anthony.”

“And you’re just being you?”

“Something like that.”

“Ah.”

He wanted to reach out and touch John’s wrist, but he couldn’t, not here. “What are you doing?”

“Later, you mean?”

“Yes.”

John downed the last of the very expensive wine, then pushed to his feet. As he was getting up, he bent over and whispered in Carlo’s ear, “Getting fucked by you. I hope.”

And then John turned and left the way he’d come, left Carlo1        

 with his heart thumping too heavily in his chest, feeling as if the lights were too bright, the sounds too loud.

_______________________________________________________

 

It was how it always was—on his belly, splayed out, passively taking it because that’s how Charlie liked it. No reciprocation, no response, even if he’d wanted that. He’d made the mistake, months ago, of trying and Charlie had shoved his head down and said, _‘No.’_

“Tell me you like this,” Charlie panted in his ear.

“I like this.”

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Tell me you’re gonna stay, no matter what.”

“I’m going to stay,” he murmured, the words burning his throat because what did he know about staying? He never stayed. Especially not with someone like Charlie. “I’m gonna stay.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

Charlie groaned and thrust faster, making the bed creak and moan, mouthing John’s scapula at just the wrong moment, his glasses catching the curve of bone because he’d forgotten to take them off when he’d shoved John onto the bed.

It was a sharp pain but not a big deal. Business as usual.

***

He glanced up at the clock’s thin blue numbers without moving his head, Charlie’s arm heavy around his waist. Eleven forty-seven. Too early to leave; he’d made that mistake, too, the first time Charlie had fucked him. Charlie hadn’t liked it when he’d gotten up to get dressed and since he didn’t much care either way, now he always waited until midnight. Like Cinderella, only he wasn’t a disinherited princess and Charlie sure as hell wasn’t Prince Charming.

He smiled at the image that brought to mind and waited.

At a few minutes to twelve, he began to edge away, carefully, because he was tired and he didn’t want questions, comments or complaints. But he wasn’t careful enough—Charlie stirred, his arm tightening.

“Hmm?”

He paused and said without looking around, “I need to get up early. I’ve got the meet with Latimer.”

“Yeah, okay. Be careful.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“I didn’t mean that. Be careful he doesn’t make _you_ mad—we need him in one piece.”

He nodded and got up. His shorts were on the other side of the bed where Charlie had thrown them. He picked them up and tugged them on.

“Hey?”

Charlie was watching with steady appraisal, one arm out flung. “Yes?”

“I might have something new for you.”

He pulled on his trousers. “What is it?”

“Benny was followed the other day as he was coming out of the bodega.”

He shrugged. Benny had been making mistakes lately—he was too old to be on the job but try telling Charlie that. “Woman or man?”

“Man. About fifty; with a face like a bald boxer, according to Benny.”

“Was it the Feds?”

“I don’t know because Benny doesn’t know. He gave the guy the slip and doubled back, but the guy got away. In a black town car, a limo.”

“Anything else?”

“He got a plate.”

John shook out his shirt, then drew it on. Charlie had torn off one of the buttons again. He’d take it to the cleaners in the afternoon. “Who is it registered to?”

“Some shlub; a paralegal named Burdett.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“If he’s the guy, take care of him.”

“Okay.”

“But quietly. Don’t take any chances, not now.”

“Okay.” He sat down on the chair and pulled on his socks and boots.

“Hey, come here,” Charlie said softly, patting the bed.

He didn’t sigh as he rose to go sit on the bed. Charlie reached for his hand. Not to hold it but to fasten his cuffs.

“You know about Napoleon, right?” Charlie asked, fingers moving deftly.

“Some,” he lied. He’d read half a dozen biographies on Bonaparte over the years, but Charlie liked it when he didn’t know something—it was the teacher in him.

“After fifteen years of serving his country, they kicked him out, exiled him to the tiny island of Elba.” Charlie finished with one cuff and reached for the other. “And there he stayed, biding his time until he was ready. He raised an army and retook the throne.”

 _‘And ended up exiled on another island, all because he was the quintessential megalomaniac.’_ “You’re planning on raising an army?”

“I won’t have to. There…” Charlie patted John’s hand, pushing away at the same time. “Go. I’ve gotta get some sleep.”

They didn’t kiss goodbye—it wasn’t their way. He rose, gathered up his coat, gun and keys and left without looking around, knowing that Charlie was scrutinizing his every move.

***

He breathed deep when he got outside. A thick fog had moved in, covering the city with grey, bringing with it the smells of the water—salt and humidity and decay.

He should go straight to bed. Killing three Russian mobsters in forty-seven seconds and then getting fucked by the man who’d ordered the hit took a toll, even on him.

Instead, he stopped by the liquor store around the corner from his place and bought a fifth of whiskey. He went to his hotel room and locked the door and drank himself to sleep.

***

Burdett turned out to be, as Charlie had said, a shlub. Well, not a shlub per se, but definitely a man without much character.

Thanks to Fusco and the town car’s GPS, John picked up Burdett’s trail near the Upper East Side. He followed from a safe distance and when the town car stopped near Grand Central Terminal, he did, too. He watched as Burdett got out of the car and spoke to the driver, a man who didn’t match the description that Benny had given but who was clearly security. And then Burdett took off, going south.

John followed on foot, growing more and more puzzled.

Because Burdett was in his late-forties, had a stuck-in-the-seventies haircut and a matching suit. He seemed the epitome of harmlessness, a manner that was compounded by the fact that he was also disabled.

Probably a car accident or fall. When he turned his head, he turned his entire body, so a fused CV2 or 3? Add to that an injured leg or hip—he threw his leg out as he walked, his gait jerky and stiff like a marionette with a bad string. But maybe the oddest thing was that he had a way of walking that didn’t have anything to do with his handicap—as he moved through the crowd, people made way for him but didn’t look at him, as if he were a ghost.

John followed him into the building, stopping near the information kiosk. There were only a few people waiting at the elevator bank and even though he was sure Burdett wasn’t aware of being tailed, he didn’t want to blow it this early in the game.

He’d do a little research first, find out what he could the fast way.

***

The brownstone was a bust. It seemed like the others on the street—unobtrusively neat and about as secure as a cracker box. But it had bars on all the rear windows and a sophisticated alarm system on all the doors and windows. The only accessible area was the backyard, guarded by a gate and a padlock.

John picked the lock easily and stepped into the yard. The back was as neat as the front with a tiny patch of lawn and a garage. The garage was far too small for the town car but John peered inside anyway. A stack of boxes lined one wall, the rest of the space was taken up by old computer equipment and furniture.

He turned back to the house and pondered breaking in through the garden-level window. It would be quick and easy, but given the alarm, not the most circumspect. He’d save it for another day, in case he had no choice.

Using the cover of a headhunter, he went to Burdett’s office and asked to talk to the head of HR. He gave the usual patter, then accidently spilled his coffee on Ms. Freemont’s desk. Freemont exclaimed and jumped up while John murmured apologies. He was still saying he was sorry as she ran from the room to get paper towel.

Quickly, he found Burdett’s file and began to read.

Burdett, first name Harold, was as innocuous on paper as he was in real life. He was single, no kids and made fifty-two thousand a year as a software engineer. In seventeen years, he’d been promoted twice and had just received his fifth ‘Software Engineer of the Month’ plaque and a gift card. And, even though he looked good on paper, he seemed to be on his way out—his last four performance reviews were increasingly bad. He probably had a few months at best.

Poor sap, John was thinking, back in his seat, when Freemont returned with a wad of paper towels in her hands and a sour look on her face.

He thanked her with another false apology and left, a weird feeling in his chest.

Why the limo, why the security? And why the misidentification? Benny D’Agostino was getting old, sure, but no way would he confuse Burdett and a guy who looked like a boxer. Maybe it had been Burdett’s driver after all? He was around thirty, not fifty, and definitely not bald; maybe Benny’s eyes were going.

None of it fit and as he left Burdett’s building, he pulled up his collar, not happy. So much for the fast way.

***

Burdett had a routine: leave the brownstone at eight sharp via the town car, arrive at the office at nine-fifteen, work until noon. Then, a thirty-minute lunch at the cafeteria on the third floor while he read, then back to work until five. He left the building exactly at five-ten, walked the three blocks to where the car waited, then back home where he’d stay until the next morning.

Like an automaton.

Even his body language was robot-like. Bland to the point of fading into the background, he never smiled, never showed surprise or anger. He had no friends, made no casual conversation. When everyone was gathered in groups in the cafeteria, he’d sit alone at a table along the far wall, reading.

No one was that boring, that regular, and as John shadowed and made mental notes, he began to wonder just what the hell he was seeing.

***

“So, nothing? No boxer?” Charlie said.

He crossed his legs and sipped his coffee, not taking his eyes from the newspaper. “Not so far.”

“It’s been a week. You should have called before now.”

 _I didn’t—you called me, remember?_ But even through the cell, he could hear Charlie’s dissatisfaction so he kept his sarcasm to himself. “These things take time.”

“What about a wiretap?”

“His line isn’t accessible.”

“Buried cable?”

“So it would seem.”

“What about his cell?”

“He doesn’t use one.”

“Huh. You said he was a software engineer, right?”

“Hmm.” The woman at the table next to him was either going to turn twenty-five or had just turned twenty-five; she was surrounded by co-workers, laughing as they gave her a cake and a bunch of balloons, each marked with a, ‘25.’

“And that’s all you got after a week?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not impressed, John. I thought you’d have more.”

“What can I say? This is an unusual case.”

“Yeah, well, I want you done. Yogorov is having a party on Friday; I thought I’d pay him a visit.”

“I never pegged you for a party crasher, Charlie.”

“You never pegged me, period.”

John cracked a smile. Charlie almost sounded grumpy. Which was sort of funny, considering. “Give me two more days. I should have something by then.” Across the room, Burdett closed his book and pushed awkwardly to his feet.

“You better. Anthony’s getting antsy. He wants me to take you off the job so he can handle it on his own.”

Burdett made his way around the tables, his movements stiffer than usual. He must be having a bad day.

“You there, John?” Charlie asked tightly.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he answered absently. Burdett had paused to talk to a woman. She worked on the fifth floor, in records. Burdett said something that made her laugh, then he continued on, expression blank as always. “Anthony can have it. I don’t care.”

“No,” Charlie muttered, falling for the bluff. “But just more two days.”

He glanced down as Burdett came his way, pretending to concentrate on the newspaper. “Yeah, okay.” Burdett passed behind the marble column that John was using for cover and it had to be his imagination that he could smell the soft scent of Burdett’s aftershave.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s up with you?” Charlie asked, his voice unusually slow, almost tentative.

He took a deep breath and straightened up, folding his paper, telling himself to concentrate on the task at hand. “Nothing. Just a little bored.”

“You sure that’s it?”

“I’m sure.”

Charlie was silent for a long moment, then he muttered, “Well, enjoy it while it lasts. You’ll be plenty busy in a few days.”

Charlie hung up and John turned off the phone with a grateful sigh. Charlie was getting paranoid. And paranoid mafiosos never made the best companions, even in the best of circumstances.

***

The next two days passed the same as the week before. So much so that John wondered, for the first time, if he’d found someone that had no dark side, no wild side—someone who was simply as they appeared.

And then came the last night of the stakeout.

***

He was half asleep, head propped on his fist, wondering why he was spying on someone who didn’t need to be spied on when movement caught his eye. He jerked up, wide awake, as the limo pulled up in front of Burdett’s brownstone. The driver got out, then opened the rear door.

And here came Burdett in a black wool coat, black hat and red scarf. He glanced around, descended the stairs and got in the car. The driver closed the door; in a moment, they were off.

He let the limo get a few blocks away, then followed, north to Greenpoint and across the river. When the driver cleared the bridge and did a sharp U to pull under the viaduct, John kept going, a block beyond and back again. He found a good spot next to an old machine shop and got out, camera in hand.

He looked around and frowned. Even during the day, this was a sketchy part of town and no place for a mild-mannered computer geek. What was Burdett doing?

He had a good vantage point, about fifty feet away; he leaned against the corner of the building, training his camera on the scene.

Burdett’s driver had taken cover behind the bridge’s massive concrete support pillars and yeah, it was a meet. Burdett got out of the car just as a man stepped from the shadows of the viaduct into the harsh yellow street lamps.

 _Here_ was the boxer. Big and ugly, wearing a black leather jacket and gloves. He and Burdett exchanged a few words and then he reached inside his jacket. John tensed and took a quick breath, releasing it slowly when the man pulled out an envelope and not a gun.

Burdett looked inside the envelope and there was another brief exchange of words.

Then they both separated, the man back to the shadows, Burdett back to the car. John couldn’t help himself even though the boxer was the main event—he trained the camera on Burdett, paused by the open car door. And wonder of wonders, for the first time Burdett was actually showing some emotion. Anger? Frustration? Both?

So Burdett wasn’t happy with what he’d been given or maybe he wasn’t happy with the messenger?

Burdett climbed into the car and John watched for a brief moment, itching to shout, to stop Burdett from leaving and force him to say what was going on. But, no, he had a job to do. And that job was in a black SUV, heading east.

***

They didn’t go far. Two miles from the river, the boxer pulled up to a dive off 54th.

John followed. Even into the bar, because what the hell—he was tired and if the guy was trouble, he’d just take him out back and get what he needed the fun way.

But the guy wasn’t trouble. He was a whiner, sure, but not trouble. Sitting at the bar, complaining about his life. How it sucked, how his ex was making it suck harder, every last dime going to her and the kid. The bartender did what all bartenders did—he listened with a look of thinly veiled boredom as he wiped down the countertop, then a tray of glasses.

By midnight, John was done and when the guy got up to use the bathroom, he made his move. He cut the guy off with an apologetic, _‘I’m sorry—didn’t see you there; you go first,’_ gesture, lifting his wallet at the same time. He palmed it, nodded to the bartender, and left.

He waited until he was back in the city to see what he’d caught. About ninety bucks tucked under a picture of a little boy, a beat up punch card for a pizza joint in Queens and an equally beat up driver’s license for one Leonard Stills.

***

Leonard Stills turned out to be an ex-cop. An ex-cop with no pension, no 401k, no savings. He’d blown it all defending himself against very public charges of corruption when the city kicked him off the force two years ago. Since then, he’d applied for, and been turned down from, several security jobs.

He closed the folder Fusco had given him, then rubbed his jaw. That weird feeling in his chest was now a lump. He wasn’t sure how Stills and Harold had crossed paths, but cross paths they had. They were clearly working together and what did that say about Harold? Why would someone so harmless hire a creep like Stills? It didn’t make sense.

***

Charlie answered on the second ring. “Where the hell are you?”

“Ten minutes away. What’s wrong?”

“Something’s come up.”

John touched the folder on the seat next to him. “What about Burdett? I finally got some information—don’t you want to hear it?”

Charlie hesitated, then said, suddenly amiable, “Never mind about him. Benny was probably just overreacting. I’ve got another problem for you to take care of.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you know Benny—always one for drama.”

John frowned—that wasn’t his take on Benny, not by a long shot. “What am I missing here, Charlie?”

“Nothing. It’s over.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What about Anthony? He’s too busy?”

“Yeah, Mr. Smartguy, he is. He’s taking care of a little project for me.”

He held back a sigh and pulled to the side of the road. “What’s the job?”

“Some kid named Julio copped Joey’s car while he was in the liquor store. Joey’s gone to get it back, but I need you there also. Use that tracker I had you install.”

“Joey’s got something in the trunk?”

“Yeah, a lot of somethings. If the kid takes a peek and decides to grow a brain, Joey’s gonna be in for it.”

He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. Something was happening here and Charlie was trying to keep it from him. “Okay.”

“And when you’re done, meet me at my place.”

“Okay.”

He hung up and stared unseeingly out the window as the traffic zipped by.

 _‘Never mind about him.’_ And, _‘Benny was probably overreacting.’_

What the hell was that all about? Charlie was patient and methodical. Once he made a decision, he never swayed; he was like a bulldog that way. And if he thought someone was on to him or one of his men? He’d make them pay, one way or another, even if it took years.

But what was that about protecting Joey? Charlie’d had him install the tracker in first place because he thought Joey was stepping out on him. So why would he care if Joey went down on a possession charge? Those somethings in the trunk could link Joey to Charlie, sure, but he didn’t think that was it.

He grabbed the tracker out of his kit and turned it on. But he didn’t punch in the code for Joey’s car. He first tracked Charlie’s car. It was where it should be, in the parking garage under his apartment building. He entered the number for Anthony’s car next, telling himself he was crazy, there was nothing going on and he was just being—

Anthony’s car was on the move. Heading north at a fast clip.

He could be going anywhere, doing anything, but John knew where he was going—he’d traveled the same route often enough in the past week.

North on Manhattan, heading straight for Burdett’s place.

***

 _‘This is stupid,’_ he told himself, even as he ran the red light on 144th, even as he swerved around a white mini-van that was taking its time.

Stupid, because Anthony wasn’t an idiot, he wouldn’t hurt Burdett, not in a relatively quiet neighborhood in broad daylight. Stupid, because even if Anthony took Burdett out, so what? Burdett was nothing to him which meant nothing he did, nothing he _was_ mattered. Not his secretive behavior, nor his awkward way of moving, nor the way he didn’t smile back when a pretty girl smiled at him.

But apparently not, because a UPS driver stopped unexpectedly in the middle of the street and John wrenched the steering wheel, whipping to the left, passing too close on purpose, the driver’s shouts fading in the distance.

***

He got there too late.

Pulling up short behind a bright yellow Humvee, he turned the corner of Burdett’s street and saw Anthony and Jimmy, already on Burdett’s porch.

He put the car in reverse and went the way he came. Back and back until he got to the alley. He shifted to drive, made a sixty-degree turn and floored it, coming to a stop halfway up, right behind Burdett’s house.

He jumped out of the car and crashed through the locked gate with his shoulder, then ran across the tiny yard. Not to the back door with its steel security door, but to the side. He kicked the garden-level window and crawled in, cutting his palm on a piece of glass. Flicking the blood on the basement floor, he pulled his weapon and hurried to the stairs.

He crept up, pausing at the door, listening for shouts, broken glass—anything that would tell him if Anthony had found a way in. There was nothing but silence and he pushed the door open to peer around the corner.

It looked like Anthony really _was_ an idiot. Or maybe desperate because the doorknob jiggled and turned—he was out there, trying to pick the lock.

John stepped into the hall and had taken two steps when someone grabbed him from behind. Instinct and training kicked in and he lashed out, hitting his attacker on the temple with the butt of his gun. The man, Burdett’s driver, crumpled to the ground with a moan.

A soft sound made him turn, gun raised.

Burdett was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, cup in hand, a look of astonishment on his face.

John opened his mouth to whisper something about, _‘Let’s get out of here,’_ or the more prosaic, _‘You’re about to end up on the wrong side of a mob hit,’_ but before he could, Burdett said in a stunned voice, “Mr. Reese?”

***

_‘Mr. Reese.’_

Two simple words that echoed in the quiet house as if Burdett had shouted them at the top of his voice. Taking John by complete surprise and he stood there frozen, feeling as if the earth had lurched beneath his feet.

“Mr. Reese?” Burdett said again, the liquid in the cup splashing on the ground as he took a step forward. “What—”

The doorknob rattled again and they both jumped. John leaped forward, shoving Burdett back into the kitchen. “Come on.”

Burdett craned his head, trying to see over John’s shoulder. “Mr. Reese—”

John pushed him, hand on chest, ordering, “Go!”

Burdett hesitated, then sat the cup down and hurried to the door. “Where?”

“Someplace safe.”

He expected arguments or at the very least another, _‘Mr. Reese?’_ but Burdett just scooped up a set of keys from the countertop and fumbled for the lock. His hands were shaking; John reached around and took the keys and unlocked the door.

“Me first,” he murmured, edging around Burdett.

“Be my guest,” Burdett murmured back.

He threw a smile over his shoulder at the unexpectedly pithy response and stuck his head out. There was no one in the backyard and—from what he could see which wasn’t much—no one in the alley.

Still…

“My car is in the alley. Stay with me.” He grabbed Burdett’s sleeve, then crept down the stairs and scuttled across the yard to the side of the garage. He peered over the fence and scanned the alley, just for good measure. No one there, so either Anthony and Jimmy were still trying to find a way in through the front or they—

“Wonderful,” he murmured.

Burdett pressed close, trying to see. “What is it?”

“Company.” Anthony was nowhere in sight, probably already in the house, but Jimmy was sneaking down the alley, skirting the trashcans and parked cars. He was maybe fifty feet away; no way he wouldn’t see them when they made a dash for the car.

Assistance, or more like rescue, came in the form of an SUV, pulling into the alley right behind Jimmy. Jimmy straightened up, hiding his gun and waving like he was saying hello.

Perfect. John grabbed Burdett’s arm and dragged him to the car, using his own body for cover. He opened the back door and shoved Burdett in with a terse, “Get in. Stay down.” He didn’t wait for an answer but scrambled into the front seat, started the engine and put the car in reverse.

He hit the gas the same time that Jimmy saw them. He began firing uncontrolled shots that hit nothing but air, using the SUV for cover.

John twisted in the seat, one arm on the back and picked up speed. Past the houses and garages, careening into the street to do a counter-clockwise forty-five degree turn. By reflex, he glanced in the rearview.

So, no, Anthony wasn’t an idiot just as he wasn’t in Harold’s house. He was standing in the middle of the street, aiming his weapon straight at them. He was smiling that cool, smartass smile of his that said he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.

“Mr. Reese?”

John didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Burdett was peering over the seat. “I told you to stay down.” Still in reverse, he gave the car some gas. “And stop calling me that.” He pressed heavily on the gas pedal, from zero to thirty to forty in a heartbeat. Anthony threw off a few rounds but intent didn’t equal suicidal—he dove to the left as John flew by, missing him by a few inches.

“Mr. Reese?”

He took the corner of Manhattan too fast and they skidded wildly before centering. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

There was a pause, then Burdett murmured, “Did you kill my driver?”

“No. He’ll have a bad headache when he wakes up, but that’s all.”

“We should call the police in case they go back to my house.”

“They won’t.”

“Where are we going?”

“I have no idea.” Anthony was probably on the phone to Charlie by now. Which meant he was in for it; all the places he frequented were known to Charlie—the hotel, the liquor store, the gym where he worked out.

“Then may I suggest a place? So we can talk?”

“Where?”

“A park I know. Near the river. We’ll be safe there. At least, as safe as one can be in this type of situation.”

“Okay.”

“Just keep heading south. And then we’ll talk.”

John shrugged against the odd feeling that the tables had somehow turned. That instead of being the protector he was suddenly the protected.

Oh, well. At least Burdett had stopped calling him by a dead man’s name.

***

The park ended up being Roosevelt Island, a spit of land tucked under the Queensboro Bridge. In the wide-open, yes, but with available cover in case he needed it. He pulled into a parking space and cut the engine. Without a word, Burdett got out and headed towards a bench that faced the water. He stopped beside it, fingers just touching the bench back.

John followed.

There was no one about and it was quiet enough to hear the waves of the river lap against the stone bulwark. It was disorienting, this sudden change of scenery, from violent to pastoral. He felt as if he were standing before a backdrop or museum diorama, like the broad city before him was fake, only a pretense. And that he and Burdett were the only living things in an artificial world.

“Well?” he finally said when Burdett didn’t speak.

Burdett made a helpless gesture, still looking at the river. “I almost don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning?” _Like, how do you know my name and why is Charlie afraid of you? “_ The beginning is always a good place.”

“The beginning,” Burdett murmured, as if he’d never heard of such a thing. “I’ll try.” He stepped towards the bench when John realized he was only wearing his vest and no coat. And that it was getting cold.

“Wait—” He took his jacket off and held it out. “Here.”

Burdett turned and looked, first at the coat and then at John.

There was that feeling again as they stared at each other, as if the world had ceased to spin and he was left off balance, wondering what had just happened.

Burdett broke the moment by taking the coat with a stilted, “Thank you.” He pulled it on and sat down. John sat next to him, a careful two feet away.

“So,” Burdett said, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

“A bedtime story?”

Burdett slanted him an impatient look. “Hardly.” He turned back to the river. “No, this is a story about two men. You see, Mr. Reese, I have been watching—and waiting for, I might add—you for a very long time.”

***

It was dark by the time Burdett finished his crazy story. Of how he’d been monitoring John for years. How he’d hacked his records, both civilian and military, to keep track of him. Even the government files that were supposed to be off limits except to a very few. How he’d planned to offer John a job when it had looked like drinking was going to be his new career path. And how that plan had been preempted by Charlie.

“You mean to say all of this wouldn’t have happened if Charlie hadn’t been on the subway that night? That he wouldn’t have seen me take out those punks?”

Burdett nodded. “I saw the tape. You were…” He shook his head. “Impressive. Mr. Burton must have thought so, too.”

John wrapped his arms around his chest. It had grown cold as well as dark and he wished he hadn’t given away his coat. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t much care if you believe me or not, Mr. Reese. It’s what happened. My lawyer was on his way to the police station when Charlie Burton showed up. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have paid your bail and my men would have brought you to me. When I found out what had happened, it was too late. I looked for you, but you were off the grid.” He looked John up and down. “And even if I had found you, I might not have recognized you. You look very different from your military photos.”

He squinted up at the bridge. “You were going to offer me a job?”

Burdett nodded. “Yes. A job.”

“Why?”

“Because you could do what I can’t.” Burdett gestured to his leg. “Because you needed something.”

It was hard to remember, the man he’d been back then, drunk every day, miserable, suicidal. “What did I need?”

“You needed a purpose.”

“Purpose,” he murmured, because yes, when Charlie had bailed him out and got him cleaned up, so earnest and forthright, John had thought, _Here’s a man I can work with, possibly follow_. It wasn’t until later that he found out the truth and by then it was—as Burdett had just said—too late.

Burdett shifted sideways to face him. “Yes, purpose. It’s something you still need. This can’t go on, you know—whatever you do for Charlie Burton has got to stop.”

He shook his head, unsure if he were shaking off the truth of Burdett’s words or the impossibility of change. Not anything he wanted to think about right now. “What have you got on Charlie? Why is he so afraid of you?”

“I don’t know. All I do know is that Charlie Burton isn’t really Charlie Burton. The real Charles Burton died years ago—the man you know assumed his name a year later.”

He should have known; he _did_ know. “What’s his real name?”

“I have no idea. Just that he has ties to the Cosa Nostra and someone named Elias. Which means Mr. Burton is a very dangerous man, Mr. Reese. I believe he or someone in his crew killed a former detective to keep his secret.”

Well, that wasn’t a surprise—it had probably been Anthony—he’d gone out a month ago and had come back, smiling like a cat full of cream. “And the other guy, the one you hired in place of me?”

Burdett shook his head. “Mr. Stills. That was a mistake. I thought he could be rehabilitated. I was wrong. And he’s not very good at the few tasks I _have_ given him.” He touched John’s coat pocket absentmindedly. “I’ve got to find a way out of that relationship.”

John nodded. He knew the feeling.

Burdett watched him for a long moment then said, “So, what do you think?”

“About your non-job offer?”

“Yes. It’s still on the table. After working with Mr. Stills these last six months, I know what I’m missing. You and I will make a good team.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’ve already proven how much I _do_ know.”

John leaned forward and smiled, not nicely. “I’ve killed a lot of men in those six months, Mr. Burdett. How do you know I won’t kill you?”

But instead of answering, Burdett shook his head. “And that’s another thing. Burdett isn’t my name. You may call me Mr. Finch. And I promise you, that will be the last time I lie to you.”

“Everybody lies, Harold.”

“I’m not everybody. In case you didn’t notice.”

The words were knowing, wry, and John swallowed an uninvited smile. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Burdett shook his head and reached in his vest pocket, saying absently, “You won’t kill me, Mr. Reese and I’m not afraid of you.” He pulled out a photo and held it up so John could see. A boy, maybe thirteen, dark hair and smiling eyes. Along the bottom of the picture in elegant script was an address on the edge of Brighton Beach. “Here’s our first case. This boy is either going to be murdered or murder someone and he’s twelve years old—that’s too young for either of those things.”

“That’s a juvenile detention photo. Unavailable to the general public. How did you get it?”

“Never mind that now. Will you work with me?”

John stared at the photo a long time, then wrapped his arms around his chest. “No.”

Burdett cocked his head, his expression changing from composure to befuddlement. “What do you mean, no?”

“It’s a simple word. You seem to be a smart man; figure it out.”

He began to rise, but Burdett stopped him, a hand on his arm. “Mr. Reese, this is your second chance and these people _need_ you. This _boy_ needs you. You can save him.”

“Finch or Burdett or whoever you are, I’m long past second chances. No one is going to save that kid, least of all me. Here…” He dug out his keys and tossed them at Finch. “If I were you, I’d lose the car before Charlie finds it, but it’s your call. You can keep the coat.”

He left Finch standing in the middle of the empty park, staring after him. On his way to find a taxi, he removed his SIM card from his phone, then tossed it in a fountain.

What a crazy night.

 ***

He took refuge in Manhattan, paying an exorbitant amount for the safety of the Mark Hotel. He double-locked the door, closed the drapes, then stripped and showered methodically, planning his next move.

In the morning, he’d retrieve the cash and fake IDs he’d been saving for such a time as this. His clothes and few personal items were a loss but he could easily buy more. He’d lay low for a few days, then assess the situation.

He was getting out the shower, wondering if he were too tired to go down to the bar for a drink when he glanced up, catching his own eyes in the mirror. He padded across the cold tile floor and leaned over the sink to stare into himself.

What had he done? What the hell had he done?

He’d blown a good thing for the sake of a total stranger. Well, the thing wasn’t so good and it came with a lot of conditions, but it was better than living on the streets with no future, no goal. He’d thrown away years of training, ignored all his natural instincts for a man who would no doubt be dead within the week.

He closed his eyes, unable to bear seeing the answer that was plain as day and turned blindly for the towels. He dried off, then got dressed again and went to lie on the bed.

How long it would take Charlie to find him? He generally stayed on his side of the river, but that had been changing over the last few months. And he never took betrayal well—John knew that better than most. So maybe a week or two?

It was a problem that wasn’t going to get solved overnight and he made himself close his eyes and relax. But just as he was falling asleep, the memory of the boy flashed before his eyes and he was up off the bed, scrubbing his face to get rid of the image. The boy was nothing to him. Harold was nothing to him.

He went to the mini-fridge and crouched to root around in it. He found a two-ounce bottle of whiskey that probably cost ten bucks an ounce, then turned on the TV. He watched whatever was on, relentlessly pushing Burdett’s words, his offer, from his mind.

***

In the end it wasn’t a week or two. It was a little over twenty-four hours.

***

“This isn’t a good idea,” he muttered to himself, peering through the squeaky clean windows, looking for the boy. “You’re cracking up.”

It was true. The minute he’d woken from a shallow sleep, he’d thought of the boy. When he’d dropped the key card off at the reception desk and nodded to the clerk, he’d thought of the boy.

When he stopped by a tiny restaurant for what turned out to be a lousy cup of coffee and a decent breakfast, he’d thought of the boy.

Finally, standing before an old grave in Cavalry Cemetery, brushing dirt off the pouch holding his money and spare gun, he thought of the boy and gave up.

He took the taxi back to town, stole a car and set off.

The address wasn’t quite in Charlie’s stomping grounds, but close enough and as he cruised the streets, he told himself he’d give it thirty minutes. If he hadn’t found the boy in that time, he’d leave and not look back.

Forty-five minutes later he was still looking, angry, talking to himself, which was never a good thing. He was crazy; crazy as Burdett and if—

He slowed down, then backed up. “God _damnit,”_ he whispered viciously, because yes, he really had seen Burdett inside the bodega, talking to a kid.

He parked, got out and marched between the fruit and vegetable stands, on into the store. Neither Burdett nor the kid had noticed him. On the other side of the store, an old man stood frozen, a phone in his hand. John nodded to him, then murmured pleasantly, “Harold.”

Burdett turned awkwardly, his mouth open in shock. “Mr. Reese? What are you—”

“The same thing as you, apparently.” He turned to the boy. Julio was taller than his picture made him to be, thin, with a faint trace of acne on his jaw. He was wearing an apron and holding a can of peas and a cloth. “What’s going on here?”

Burdett gestured sharply. “I was trying to convince Julio to—”

John ignored Burdett and cocked his head. Son of a _bitch_.“You’re name is Julio?”

The boy nodded.

“Did you hotwire a car yesterday?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head.

“You didn’t steal a car from out there?” He jerked his thumb; the boy jerked, too.

“Tell him,” the older man said in Spanish, coming closer.

The boy shrugged, eyes to the floor. “I didn’t hotwire it; the keys were left in the ignition.”

John smiled. “You should be a lawyer.” The boy glanced up; under the hard veneer, he was terrified. “But, I’m not here for that. I just need to know what you did with the car.”

The boy licked his lips, then mumbled, “I left it where I found it. I mean, I drove it around a couple blocks and I waited for the guy to leave, but then I put it back right where I found it. I don’t know what happened to it after that. Honest—” He gripped the can of peas. “My cousin dared me to take it. I wouldn’t have—” He glanced at the older man and shook his head several times.

John sighed. “See, the thing is, Julio, the man you stole the car from? He’s a very bad man.” He smiled, a little regretfully. “And he works for an even worse man. It doesn’t matter if you gave the car back; he’s gonna come looking for you and then he’s gonna kill you.”

Burdett shot him a quick glance and shifted from foot to foot. Interesting; however Burdett got his intel, he didn’t know everything.

“He was here yesterday,” Julio answered. “I told my grandfather, and—” He nodded to the old man. “I hid upstairs until he was gone.”

“He’ll be back, probably with his boss. Do you have somewhere you can go? Some place safe?”

The boy nodded cautiously. “My grandfather wants me to go stay with my mom in Florida.”

“Mr. Reese?” Burdett whispered, then pointed to the street when John glanced his way.

He looked over his shoulder. A car was just passing by, a late model Ford. “Harold?” he whispered without taking his eyes from the street. “Take the boy and his grandfather upstairs.”

“But what about—”

He turned. And smiled wryly; Burdett looked so scared. “Don’t worry about me. This is what I’m good at.”

After a moment, Burdett nodded, then made a shooing gesture to the boy and his grandfather. All three scurried through the shop, bent low.

John unbuttoned his jacket and stepped outside. It was a nice day, now that he thought about it. He picked up an orange and held it to his nose. Sweet.

Just as sweet as Anthony’s expression when he strolled up, Joey in tow. “Boys,” he murmured. “What brings you to this part of town?”

Anthony shook his head. “I should have known you’d be mixed up in this. What? The punk is working for you?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. He’s just a stupid kid who did a stupid thing.”

Joey leaned forward, using Anthony for cover. “Hey! He stole my car.”

“It was a dare,” John said with a shrug. “And he returned it. If you’d bothered to wait around, you would have seen him bring it back.”

“Does it look like it’s back?” Joey asked, nodding to the street.

“This is a dangerous neighborhood, Joey. Cars get stolen all the time.”

Joey snarled.

John smiled and smelled the orange again. “Does Charlie know you’re here?”

Joey looked at Anthony and Anthony looked at Joey.

“Yeah.”  John nodded. “I thought so.” He put the orange down and took a few steps onto the sidewalk, still covering the doorway. “I’ll tell you what—we’re going to call this a wash. You go your way, the kid will go his. He won’t bother you again, you won’t bother him. This bodega is off limits—you so much as step foot across the threshold and I’ll know.” He bent his lips in a smile. “And it won’t be you who does the looking next time.”

Joey retreated behind Anthony again. But Anthony, he just cocked his head and said, “And you think that’s it? We’ll just turn and run?”

“No. I’m confident that when you think about it, you’ll realize this isn’t worth your time or energy.”

“And Charlie?”

“Tell him he was right,” John answered softly. “Change _is_ in the air.”

They stared at each other as Anthony weighed his options—attack or retreat. But, as much as John hated him, he wasn’t a fool and in the end he backed away, nodding shortly.

John watched them go, watched them get in Anthony’s car and drive down the street. When they disappeared around the corner, he went back inside.

***

“So, Mr. Reese,” Burdett said as the Greyhound bus disappeared around the corner. “Do you think Julio will stay in Florida?”

He shrugged. “He seems like a smart kid.”

“And the bank account I opened up for him won’t hurt, either.”

“I suppose.”

“So, does this mean you’re working for me now?”

He smiled at nothing in particular. “I have to, Harold. You wouldn’t last a day out here without me.”

Burdett snorted softly and they turned in unison to walk back to where the town car was waiting. “I think you’d be surprised at what I’m capable of, Mr. Reese. And…” He touched John’s elbow as he climbed into the car. “It’s Mr. Finch, please. Mr. Burdett is dead.”

John nodded. “Finch, it is.”

***

He waited twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours, he’d found, was the cut-off point between tense anticipation and angry resignation.

He stood in the alleyway between a candy store and a t-shirt shop, waiting until Charlie passed, head down, hands stuffed in pockets.

“Charlie.”

Charlie stopped. And didn’t turn around when he said, “I guess it was stupid of me, letting the boys go on without me. But when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

John nodded. Charlie’s men were about three hundred yards away, ambling up the boardwalk. Too far away to get to him before he got to Charlie, if it came to that.

Charlie sighed. “So let’s get it over with. Is it going to be a bullet or the knife?”

“I’m not going to kill you, Charlie.” Even though his gun was warm in his hand and his knife was within easy reach.

Charlie turned. He looked much the same as always—pleasant, even kind. “So, what? You’re just gonna let me live?”

“I’m just going to let you live.”

“What if I come for you?”

“I’ll take out your crew, one by one, then I’ll come for you. You know I can do it. But,” he shrugged, adding, “this is a big city. I doubt we’ll cross paths again.”

“And if we do?”

“Then we’ll meet under less pleasant circumstances.”

Charlie digested that. “And Burdett? Anthony went by his place yesterday. It was up for sale.”

John nodded. “He decided he was growing bored with New York.”

“And his job? The one you were telling me about?”

“He grew bored with that, too. He quit and hopped on a plane. You’ll never find him so you might as well not even try.”

He hit a nerve, said the wrong thing because Charlie’s expression changed, grew red with anger. “You’re giving up all this for _him?_ What is he to you?”

“I told you, he’s gone. Besides, what I do is none of your business. Not any more.”

Charlie swallowed his anger visibly and his eyes grew kind again. He started forward. “John—”

John raised the gun. Charlie stopped.

“There’s nothing you can say Charlie. I’m taking a new path now. And you need to turn around and walk away.”

After a moment, Charlie obeyed, but John didn’t wait. He slipped between the buildings to where the black limo waited, the driver standing by the open door. He slid in and the driver closed the door.

He relaxed into the seat as they drove away, absentmindedly stroking the smooth leather, thinking about the next few days.

He’d strip the gun Charlie had given him and dump the parts in the river. When he was done with that, he’d find Stills. It was important to tie up all the loose ends and Stills was a big loose end. Fusco could help him with that. They’d work out a new deal, change a few things.

And then there was Harold.

He was waiting in that makeshift, book-filled bat cave of his, reviewing their first case. John still didn’t know if he believed him about the numbers, but what the hell—he’d been right about Julio. He deserved a second chance.

He sighed and looked out the window. The day was grey and cloudy and cold, but still, it was kind of pretty.

“Sir?” the driver said.

“Yes?”

“Would you like some music?”

“Sure.”

A song came on, slow and hypnotic but strangely upbeat—the perfect accompaniment to the day, to the start of something new.

He propped his chin on his fist and as the car picked up speed and the city began to flow by, he smiled.

 

 

_fin._


End file.
